


Remembering Nicholas

by theoriginaldylan



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoriginaldylan/pseuds/theoriginaldylan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retrospective from the early 2000s.  John remembers, and hopes he never forgets.  Fair warning - it's hopelessly romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering Nicholas

The other day I stood barefoot on Venice Beach, letting the water lap up between my toes. It’s chilly this time of year; even Los Angeles has its days of cool air. But still the water felt warm and comforting, massaging my feet and suckling my skin with the retreat of every wave.

I have a list in my head, things that I need to do before I can settle down into a routine life here in California. I stood there on the beach and mentally checked off every item, leaving only the last one still undone: reveal to the fans that I am leaving the band. I’ll be doing that in a few short weeks, and after that I can move on, rebuild, start again…

I didn’t want to be checking items off that list. This hurts, damnit, and I am not going to lie about that or tell anyone that this is easy. It’s fucking hard. Everywhere I look someone is telling me what I should do and making some sort of “suggestion” about how I can get better. I feel like clamping my hands over my ears and drowning out each and every one of them with my screams.

What I really wanted to do that day is cry out my ex-lover’s name. I wanted to yell out each syllable in my loudest voice and have the wind carry it away to someone who might hear it, understand it, and share with me my feelings of pain and loss.

Oh god, what the fuck have I done.

“It’s for the best, John, let him go.”  
 _people, places, and things…_  
“John, do you need this to stay clean? Or will it only lead you back?”  
 _trust the process…_

Has it really been only a few days since I went to England? I can’t believe that’s possible. It feels like months or years since I saw him. We’ve been apart before; when I married Amanda we spent years being just the merest of friends; we weren’t lovers and although we were still close our relationship was tainted by my addictions and the simple fact that I had chosen her over him.

This time it’s different. We are really apart this time. I am isolated now, in my new life in California, away from the band and from my old lifestyle. But in my separation I also left behind the man that I have loved for twenty years.

I wish I could pound my fist through a wall.

“Anger is healthy, but you need to express it, John, not _react_  with it.”

I wish I could curl into a ball and hide in the corner of my apartment for the next five years.

“It’s okay to hurt, John, but make sure you _feel_  the hurt. Don’t hide from it; talk about it. Voice it and let it go.”

Oh, fuck the lot of you. I did exactly what everyone suggested. I am going to make it work this time; I have to. I care too much about staying alive and experiencing this life to its fullest. I have a daughter to take care of, and volumes of music still to write. I have words that I want to put on paper; there’s a book in me that I know some day I’ll write. I can’t do any of that if I’m dead.

So I listened this time, damnit, I listened to each and every one of you and I understood why it had to be this way and I did it, okay? For fuck’s sake _I did it_. I’m out of the band, and for now I am out of my best friend’s world. And it was the hardest thing I ever did but I am glad I did it, I am proud of myself for doing it, and now I am ready to start my life.

I wasn’t supposed to sleep with him. They “suggested” I make a clean break and I don’t revisit anything that had happened between us in the past. But he sat there on the couch, staring at me with those sad eyes, and I couldn’t resist touching him, tasting him, being inside him…

I want to remember him as my lover. I want to remember his soft lips, his warm mouth, and especially his green eyes, which looked at me with an open love and tenderness that he could never conceal. I want to remember…us.

* * * 

Eyes. That’s what I think about when I remember him. They were such an amazing shade of green. They weren’t hazel; there wasn’t a speck of brown or yellow to dull them. The color was like a child’s drawing of a leafy tree…the shade seemed to come straight out of a Crayola marker labeled simply, “GREEN.” And they changed subtly with his mood; sparkling when he was excited, darker when he was angry, cloudy when he was sad. And when we made love…

I shudder every time I think about that; the shade of his eyes when we made love. It was then when his eyes looked most deeply into mine, when I could see the color become impossibly bright with his desire, his pleasure, and his love. I always wanted to stare at him when I brought him to orgasm; I wanted to see his eyes flicker and change with the onset of his climax.

The first time I noticed his eyes was back in Birmingham. I remember that we were sitting across the table in my mum’s kitchen, reading magazines and occasionally chatting with one another about concerts and music. Mostly we just sat there and read; it was a habit we had grown into over our many years of friendship. He would come over, sit at the table, and we would read until mum came in and offered us a cup of tea. Those were some of my most pleasurable times with him; when we could sit together quietly, exchanging only minimal words, absorbed in our own worlds yet sharing the small space with ease and contentment.

I spotted an article about the American band The Ramones in my magazine. We were both interested in punk rock back then and I had their first album and was dying to see them at a show. And here I read that they would be coming to London! I was so excited that when I lifted my head to express it my glasses flew off my face. I caught them and started waving them in the air, talking a mile a minute about how thrilled I was that we might get a chance to see The Ramones live.

He stared at me as I went on and on but his eyes didn’t register much understanding. He seemed shocked and possibly even frightened. I concluded and he nodded something at me and I just put my glasses on and turned back to the magazine to find out when and where we could see The Ramones on stage.

I lifted my head to tell him the details about the show and I found him already looking in my direction. His eyes were fixed on some area on the side of my head and his face looked flushed. His eyes moved then and met mine, and that’s when I noticed their color. They flashed at me in a bright shade of green, glowing with an excitement that I had never seen before. I had been his friend for years already and I had never seen this particular color staring back at me. I was seventeen then and I immediately understood that I was seeing my younger friend offer me the incredibly adult expression of desire.

My reaction was almost involuntary. Instead of turning away I smiled at him. I returned his sentiment with an endearing, comforting smile. I knew damn well that I was enticing him; but the shade of his eyes and the desire on his face had touched me, and I just wanted to tell him that it was okay. My face became hot and my jeans became too tight; I finally turned my head down before I became hypnotized by his stare, fearing it might make me act in a manner that I knew damn well would be inappropriate.

Thank god my mum came in the kitchen to make tea. The next time I met his eyes the bright shade of green had dulled; I looked into the eyes of my friend and saw the familiar green color that I had been looking at almost every day since we had met.

* * *

Memory is such a funny thing. Just a few weeks ago I could only remember the bad times. I was getting ready to go to England and I sat in my small apartment thinking about the things I was going to say when I saw him. And all I could remember was misunderstanding, hurt and pain. It’s strange because none of those things occurred between us with any frequency. Before going to England to tell him I was leaving the band, and him, I locked onto the few memories that made me hate him, accuse him, and mistrust him.

I brooded over his marriage to Julieanne. God, I hated him for that. At the time we had spent almost two years being lovers and I remember he used to whisper to me that he loved me as we moved together in the beds we shared. I don’t think he knew that I could hear him. But I did, every time. I could feel it in his lips, pressed against my skin. I could feel it in the breath that brushed across my hair. I could hear him when I pretended to be asleep, curled up naked beside him in a comfort and ease that we had grown to share with each other.

He stopped saying it. At the time I wasn’t sure why; I was naïve back then and knew nothing about men, women, relationships…I didn’t realize that he needed to hear me return the feeling; that I had to tell him that I loved him, also. I assumed that he already knew how I felt, and that I didn’t have to voice it.

Okay, I admit I was scared. It’s one thing to be screwing your friend, it’s another thing when he’s another man, and it’s an entirely different situation when you’re in love with him as well. Before we became lovers I did tell him I loved him; but the words had the innocence of youth and friendship behind them. In later years I let him whisper it to me and I thanked him silently each time. I responded with caresses and kisses and when he stopped voicing his love I resigned myself to the simple fact that maybe he just didn’t feel it anymore.

He told me he had met a fantastic woman who loved him dearly and instead of taking him in my arms and telling him that I loved him more, I told him to date her and to be happy. I had no idea he would actually marry her.

Of course I blamed him. Nothing was ever _my_  fault in those days. I know better now but back then I thought I was doing the noble thing. We were lovers but we couldn’t be open about it; we spent a lot of time hiding our relationship from those closest to us. So I wished him luck with his new girlfriend and kept my hurt and sadness hidden deep inside.

We still slept with each other after the marriage. Oh, that was such an interesting time in our lives. We assaulted each other in clubs and bars and in our hotel rooms while on tour; we snuck kisses while no one was looking and retreated to bathrooms for swift blowjobs. We were in a frenzy of sex and love, as if we only existed for one another. And yet he was married, we had millions of teenage girls crazy for us, and we were the biggest band in the world. I took women to my bed often; groupies and models and anyone who was interested in getting me off for a night. But somehow it never satisfied me; I visited my male lover often, going to him when I needed the comfort and security that I knew only he could offer me.

We could have gone on like that indefinitely, I think. But years pass and lives change and my life turned into something dark and foreboding. The addiction crept up on me slowly over time; I had no idea it was coming until one day I was underweight, pale, and sick all the time from withdrawal or ingesting too much alcohol and cocaine. I started running to him in panics of intoxication and fear, trying to revisit the innocence we once shared and the times that we had been happy with one another. I wanted to see him gaze into my eyes, and give me the look that said, “I love you.”

He didn’t understand. I can’t blame him for that; I was a hard person to deal with in those times and I know that he tried his best to relate to what I was going through. But it had nothing to do with the band or his life; he had a wife and child, and although things were not always happy between them, that was the life he had embarked on. I chose drugs and alcohol, and that was not something he would ever understand.

I could see it in his eyes. They showed me confusion and fear. What I wanted to see was love and desire. Isn’t that what all alcoholics want? To be loved and accepted? Fuck it, isn’t that what everybody wants? Maybe I just wanted it a little more desperately; needed it, even. I wanted to see his eyes bright green with excitement every time I saw him. I wanted to see him stare at me, into me, and devour me with his expression. I wanted his love, every goddamn day.

I am such an ass. It was me, I know that, it was all me; I am the asshole in this relationship and there is not a damn thing I can do to change it. Christ, why didn’t I just go to rehab then. Why didn’t I see what was happening to me? No one else told me, you know. Everyone was frightened for me, everyone cared about me, but no one ever told me that I needed help.

I shouldn’t be thinking like this.

“Sober thoughts, John, sober thoughts…”

This isn’t healthy. It isn’t good for me to point fingers and place blame; even if it’s on me.

No, I’ll think about the things that made me happy. I’ll think about my friend, and his green eyes.

* * *

I smiled a lot when I was young. I smiled a lot at him; my friend, my companion…I smiled at him in the same way I had done in my mum’s kitchen; showing him endearment, comfort, and even love.

By the time I turned twenty we had embarked on a brave adventure. We had a rock band together, and we both knew that it would be successful. Just how successful, we never predicted. In 1982 we were on our second trip to America and I knew with sudden clarity exactly what would be in store for us – fame, recognition, money, and most of all having our lives come under the scrutiny of the public and the press.

It hit me like a wall, this realization. I became terrified. When we were in New York I opened my hotel door one night to find my friend standing before me, smiling and asking if I’d like some company. I started sobbing. I don’t know what came over me; I felt a loneliness and despair that I had never felt before and the second I saw the familiar eyes staring up at me the feelings I held inside became overwhelming.

He was so goddamn good at comforting me. I could always ask him for advice and help and he would always give it to me; without question and without condition. It was one of the reasons I loved him. On that night his appearance at my door touched me deeply; it was as if he had read my mind from down the hall. We both should have been out at a party or a club, picking up women and having a grand time as young, ambitious pop stars. But somehow we had both chosen to stay in the hotel, and like magic he had appeared at my door.

I invited him into my bed that night. Five years after first seeing the desire in his eyes, I returned the feeling with my hands, lips, and mouth. I had seen the desire pop up now and again over the years and every time I saw that shade of his green eyes I felt my body respond in its own, private ways. For most of those five years I didn’t know what to do with my own sexual energy. He had been with women long before I had, and between us I was the far more naïve and inexperienced one. I didn’t dare tell him that my cock became hard every time he gazed at me; he didn’t sleep with men and I didn’t think that he truly wanted his desire to be returned.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. That night I was overwhelmed with emotion and I kept saying to him again and again that I was happy and grateful that he was a part of my life. We stood together with our foreheads touching and I kept telling him, “Thank you,” and he kept saying “Ssshh…” and his arms were strong as they held me and his hands were confident and firm as they roamed over my back…

Our lips touched and we began devouring one another. It was that simple, and that comfortable. Our kiss replaced our words; I told him with my lips and mouth exactly how much he meant to me. I felt his hand caress my ear and he moaned into me and I kissed him harder, feeling my cock become hard with the vibration of his lips pressed against mine.

I wanted to tell him everything. I put my arms around him and pulled him close to me, pushing my erection against his body and making him feel exactly what I wanted from him. 

“Nigel…” he moaned, the movement of his mouth stopping only briefly to let the name fall from his lips. He hadn’t called me that in a few years, ever since I had insisted that I be called by my middle name, John. I shivered when I heard him mutter this name; I had to break away from him and look at him and see if his eyes would reveal to me the depth of his desire. I kept my hands firm on his back, holding him close to me, making him feel my hard penis pressing into him.

I looked down into his eyes and they were brilliant. Bright, stunning, brilliant green. The excitement and desire seemed to shimmer throughout his irises; he stared back at me, breathless and flushed, and his eyes revealed everything I needed to know. I told him I wanted him and I saw him shudder and his breath hitched in his throat. His eyes roved across my face, searching me, looking for the truth behind my words.

He must have found it, because he pulled my head down and pressed my lips against his. He thrust his tongue inside me and explored every corner of my mouth; and as he did he pushed his body up against me, pressing his own erection into my thigh.

I never get tired of reliving this. For me it was like the first time I had ever had sex. I was so inexperienced and so clumsy on that night but he was too; for the first time I felt like we were equals: he wasn’t the strong one, the experienced one, the confident one. We were together in our ignorance about what it meant to have sex with another man. It was the first time for both of us, and we shared that experience as two people who existed only to make each other happy. We did it in every way we could; I penetrated him, he penetrated me, we sucked each other off, we rubbed ourselves against one another and shared climaxes. God, we were so young and so full of energy! I doubt I had an evening of sex like that ever again.

At the beginning he was laying down on his back, his arms thrown around my shoulders as we continued to kiss and explore one another’s mouths. I ventured my hand down to his thigh, and brought it up right over the bulge straining against his trousers. I put my hand over him, touching lightly, and I felt his body respond to me with shudders and sighs. I broke our kiss then. I sat up and I stared down at him, looking into his eyes. I wanted to see the pleasure reflected there; I wanted to see how his eyes changed when I stroked him.

I pressed harder, rubbing him over his trousers, and I could feel his penis get harder under my hand as his eyes sparkled and brightened with the pleasure that I was obviously giving him. I wanted to know more, though; I wanted to feel his skin against mine, hot and alive under my palm. I wanted to feel my bare hand wrapped his cock.

I opened his trousers and reached inside, freeing him from the constricting clothing. I watched his eyes and his face and he started gasping; the word “Nigel” escaped from his lips once more and I smiled at him, loving the sound of my name as he uttered it in the midst of his pleasure. I kissed his nose and I buried my face into his neck and I concentrated only on the sensation of his shuddering penis in my hand, feeling every small movement as he came closer to orgasm. He climaxed quickly and I helped him along, not slowing my pace or attempting to ease it out of him gently.

I kept my hand on him, stroking lightly, as I told him how different it felt to be with him. He started getting hard again and he asked me to stop so I did; and when I questioned him I realized that he had misunderstood my words. He closed his eyes and buried his cheek into the pillow, ashamed and embarrassed somehow. I thought maybe it was because he had come so quickly, or maybe he thought I wasn’t enjoying it.

God, he was so wrong. I was enjoying every damn second of it. I felt bad that he mistook my words for dissatisfaction. I only meant that it felt different than anyone else I had ever been with; that it was more satisfying than any woman I had made love to. I kissed him and I told him this, but he kept his head turned away, hiding his eyes from me and concealing his expression. And so I leaned my head down between his legs and took his penis into my mouth.

I had no hesitation or fear while performing these acts on that night. I took his cock into my mouth and sucked at him with passion and greed. I wasn’t very good at it that first time, I admit, but I wanted to give him pleasure; I became singularly focused on making him orgasm, over and over again. I had known him for many years and for five of those years I had felt sexual desire for him. There was no cause for me to be confused or frightened.

Hours later we were tired and sore. We had sex that night until we physically couldn’t do it another time. We had to retreat to his room to sleep; my bed was a mess and it was just too much effort to try and clean it. We bathed and then came together wet and naked to sleep soundly in one another’s arms.

I should have photographed him more. Damnit, that’s what I should have done. I should have dragged a camera with me into our beds and hid it behind my back, snapping a picture of his face right when he came to the apex of his pleasure. I want to see those eyes, bright and sparkling with excitement. I want to see the way the pupils dilate and the irises shimmer when he comes. I want to capture that in a picture, so I can look at it whenever I need to.

How can something that feels so right end like this? We were so perfect together that first night. Everything fit so easily and comfortably…

“You can’t remember it objectively, John. You need to pull away from him and think about your times together in a new, sober light.”

Fine. I will take a step backwards and try to see everything without his green eyes delving into me. In fact I’ll move backward a few _hundred_  steps; I’ll put six thousand miles between us and I’ll change my phone number and I won’t try to contact him until I have traveled the road to recovery that I am dedicated to setting foot on.

I suppose it’s better that I don’t have the perfect photograph of the desire flickering in his eyes. It would serve to distract me.

And they say that I have to move on.

* * *

I married Amanda because I needed someone who understood what I was going through with my addictions to alcohol and drugs. She was just as fucked up as I was, and that’s what attracted me to her. We made endless pacts and promises that we would get clean together, and we tried many times, never successfully.

I married her after I found out she was pregnant. I didn’t want to tell anyone; we married in a quick, clandestine ceremony and for some reason I felt we should hold it secret. Most of all I wanted to protect my green-eyed lover. I knew it would hurt him, and I didn’t want to see the pain etched into his eyes.

I had to tell him, though. I didn’t want him to find out through rumors or tabloids or the gossip of fans. I went to his house and I faced him. I didn’t dare step close to him; I stood hovering near the front door as he eyed me from across the foyer. I knew I looked awful; the drugs and alcohol had left me wasted both physically and emotionally. I hated that he had to see me this way, that he had to bear witness to my sinking so deep into that dark, painful lifestyle.

I told him I got married. He just nodded at me and his expression didn’t change. His green eyes were dark; the green was nowhere near as bright as it had been on that long ago day in my mum’s kitchen. I couldn’t remember then the last time I had seen his eyes bright with desire for me; I felt unwanted, unattractive, and horribly, horribly ashamed.

I couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. I turned my eyes to the floor and started composing my next words. I had to tell him that I loved him; I had to make sure that he knew with certainty that I had always returned the feelings he had expressed. At that moment all I wanted to do was turn the clock back fifteen years and sit across from him in my kitchen, smiling into his bright, excited green eyes as we awaited the arrival of my mum to brew tea.

I started to speak but I couldn’t get the words out. I had loved him for over a decade and I had never told him. It was difficult to get my mouth to form the simple phrase that I needed so desperately to unleash. I clasped my scalp in frustration but when I started speaking with the determination to finally voice my feelings, he interrupted me.

“Don’t,” I heard. I looked up at him and I saw his hand directed towards me and his eyes cold and firm. I protested but he said it again: “Don’t.” This time his eyes glistened with tears; I could see him try and hold them back but I watched helplessly as they ran down his face.

I started to say it again, but I only managed a soft “I…” before I stopped speaking. I finally saw and registered the pain in his eyes. His irises were dark, tainted by the hurt he felt; the hurt that I had inflicted.

“Please…” he said, his hand still presented to me, making sure I didn’t continue. His voice broke and he fell apart in front of me; his face fell into sadness and pain as he cried openly. “I love you,” he murmured. “And if you feel the same, you’ll turn around and leave, without another word.”

I didn’t want to go. God I wanted anything but to leave that house. He hadn’t expressed his love for me in years and when I heard those words all I wanted to do was take him into my arms and tell him I loved him too; I wanted to run my fingers through his hair and kiss his soft lips and I wanted to gaze into his green eyes and see the love and desire that I had seen so many times before.

I felt the tears well up in my eyes and I bit my lip against the words that could have flown out of my mouth. I respected his wish and I fled from him. It hurt me so much to do it; but I forced my feet to move and take me away from there.

I was so pissed off at him then. I snorted a good deal of coke and drank a bottle of vodka but it didn’t soothe my anger and my frustration. It fueled the anger into a blinding fit of rage. I had gone to him to tell him I was married because I respected and cared about him, and I wanted him to find out from me, instead of anyone else. And I wanted to tell him I loved him; I needed to tell him how I felt all these years because it had built up inside me for so long and I had to let it out before I went on with my new life with my wife and future child. Damn him, he hadn’t let me confess. I needed to confess. I needed to tell him. I needed to say those three simple words, because it was eating me up inside. And now the feeling was going to suffocate me, drown me, it was going to taint everything that I had hoped for in my new life…

Before I went to England I revisited this memory, lumping it into one of the “bad” memories of my times with him. Here in my mind I had a textbook example of how he had hurt _me_. I used the memory to justify my actions; to give me reasons to leave him and make it less painful for me to initiate.

Good lord I am such a fucking ass! The moment I saw him in England I knew how foolish I had been, digging up these memories and tainting them with my selfish outlook. He didn’t hurt me on that day; I am the one who hurt him. I married a woman he had never met, in a ceremony that he wasn’t invited to. I disrespected him by not telling him about her the way he had told me about Julieanne. And I thought that it was the appropriate time to tell him I loved him? After unloading such a horrific secret? No wonder he threw me out of his home. I can’t believe I actually thought he would be glad to hear it after all those years. I should have told him from the beginning, from the very first time we went to bed together. I decided to tell him only after I knew damn well that it would do neither of us any good except cause us pain and suffering. Because I knew that after I told him, I would run away to Amanda, and leave him all alone to deal with the pain of regret and remorse over our own relationship.

I am a sick, sick man. Just weeks before I married Amanda he told me that him and Julieanne were having marital trouble. I saw the hope flicker in his eyes and emotionally I ran away from him as fast as I could. I was on a purely self-destructive mission: drink, drug, and turn away every person who cared about me. Amanda wasn’t the least bit good for me; and so she was the perfect woman to marry.

Sick.

I wonder if it’s okay now. I really do. When I was in England I told him over and over again how sorry I was and I asked again and again what I could do to make everything okay. He was so attentive and so understanding and so goddamn respectful of me. I feel like I’m going to shatter apart, knowing that he’s not in my life right now and won’t be again for a long time.

“One day at a time, John. That’s it. If you worry about the future, you may worry yourself back to a drink.”

Damn those healthy people with their sober advice and their little slogans. I wonder how many of them had to do what I did; cast away a friend and lover I had known for more than twenty years.

“Sobriety comes first, John; everything else, including your husband or wife or lover – even your child – comes in second.”

Fine. I’ll accept that. But you could never understand how it felt to me every day I was with him; you could never know how it felt to see the desire written in his green eyes…

“Have you ever considered that you depend on him too much, John? That maybe he’s an addiction, too?”

Oh shut up! Just for a little while, okay? I’m listening, I’m digesting, I’m taking every suggestion you give me and I am doing it because I want what you have; I want to be sober, I want to be healthy, I want to get better, damnit.

But right now, just for a moment, I want to remember something. These memories are mine and you can’t take them away from me; nothing you say will dislodge them from my brain. They are mine to hold close and to revisit whenever I need to. And right now the pain I feel is mere days old; it is fresh in my mind and I want to make it go away by remembering the time that we came together as lovers once again.

* * *

Amanda and I fell apart. Everyone expected it except for me, of course. I couldn’t see our relationship objectively. At least I had made a few valid attempts at coming clean and sober; our final destruction was due to the simple fact that I was trying to make my sobriety work, and she had seemed to give up.

The band was on the road again. Ever since I had gotten married my dear friend still stayed near me, but the desire and love had left his eyes completely. We had to work together and we had no other choice but to continue some sort of friendship. And so we chatted, we worked, and we existed together, still on the same journey that we had started so long ago.

I went to him when I became distraught over my failing marriage. There was no one else I wanted to turn to. He let me into his hotel room and he comforted me, the same way he used to comfort me years before: he hugged me, he rocked me, he soothed me with kind words spoken into my hair. I clutched onto him for dear life; I thought I would lose him if I ever let go. I didn’t want to ever be away from him again; I wanted him in my life, as my lover and my companion.

It had been a long time since I had been so close to him. I was so grateful that he had let me in and offered me this that I sobbed openly against him, soaking his shirt with my tears. I was speechless; I didn’t know how to tell him thank you, or “I’m sorry,” or “I love you.” I could only unleash my sadness, and hope that later he would understand why I was so tormented.

My tears slowed and I calmed down but I still held his shirt in my fists, hanging onto him and praying that he would never let me go. I felt his lips on my forehead and felt his warm breath as he sighed into me. I froze under his touch, realizing that I had everything I had ever desired in him, that he was the one I was destined for. 

I pulled away and looked into his eyes. They were green; the simple shade of a Crayola marker. They were soft, they were loving, and they were so different from the eyes I had seen over the last few tortuous years. But they were also different from when we were young, staring at one another across a kitchen table. Because I looked into his eyes and realized that he had matured. At some time, when I wasn’t there to see it, he had morphed into a man. He wasn’t the young kid that I pretended to take under my wing and teach and protect due to his youth and small stature. He wasn’t the inexperienced twenty year old that I had gone to bed with, moaning and crying out with innocent, simple pleasure. His eyes were now worn; years of living had taken his youthful desire and turned it into an adult expression of tiredness and fear. The love was in his eyes but the bright green of his desire had been lost.

I kissed him. I took his soft lips into my mouth and clutched onto him, holding him to me with my kiss as my hands dug into his shirt. He returned the kiss with passion, moving his mouth against me with the desire that I had yearned to see in his eyes.

I gave myself to him. I lay beneath him and submitted to him in a manner that I had rarely done with anyone else in my life. I pulled his legs down on top of me, and pressed my erection into his thigh. We continued kissing, our mouths moving urgently against each other; and I said to him over and over again, “I want you…I want you…I’ve always wanted you…”

His soft lips tasted almost every part of my skin. He undressed me slowly, taking his time in kissing and caressing every new part of exposed flesh. When I finally lay naked I pulled him down on top of me and practically begged him to make love to me. He stopped kissing me and he stared down, looking into my eyes. I saw in his gaze a renewed brightness; the telltale shade of green that displayed to me his desire. I moaned when I saw it, caressing his face and running my fingers through his hair and then sliding his trousers down and off his hips, not wanting him to hesitate and make me wait any longer. His eyes became sharp, and when he entered me they became positively brilliant.

That night we made love with the same fervor we had in 1982. We were older now and I admit that we couldn’t quite match the energy we had in our youth. We gave it a damn good try, though, and we still managed to pleasure one another many times. I looked in his eyes every time he came; wanting to brand the look on his face and the color of his eyes onto my brain.

We both slept soundly that night; curled in a tight, familiar embrace. Our years apart couldn’t erase the comfort that we had shared for so many years.

I didn’t tell him I loved him. I never tried again to confess my feelings. I held them down, I tortured myself with them, I refused to let them go and discover what may happen between us. I was still a fuck up; I never sobered up entirely and I quickly descended back into depression and despair. 

But this time I didn’t get married to run away. Instead I distanced myself slowly; I pushed my lover away and shielded him from my destruction. I thought I was doing him a favor. I thought I was saving him from pain and torment. But instead I was disrespecting him; I wasn’t letting him love me the way he wanted to. By the time I checked myself into detox, ready and willing to give my sobriety a final try, we hadn’t made love in months, and I had practically discarded him.

* * * 

These things aren’t easy to say. They are deep, dark confessions that come from a secret place in my heart and mind. I am full of shame and guilt over my behavior and it hurts so much to admit to the things that I did wrong. I am trying to be a man about this; to fess up to these actions and take the responsibility for the things that went wrong in my own life.

He didn’t realize that I discarded him. I shielded him from that, as well. He just thought I needed my space. He could see I was in trouble again, and he knew he couldn’t help me; so I think he just let me go. When I returned to the band we resumed some sort of relationship as friends and lovers, but something inside me wouldn’t let it be the same. The guilt and the shame overpowered me, and instead of wanting and desiring him, I feared him.

He knew I had changed. He tried to talk to me about it but I just couldn’t discuss it. Not then, at least. I tried to work with the band and I tried to put my heart into it but everything felt wrong. The band didn’t fit anymore; it wasn’t part of me as it had been for so long. I retreated to a new life in Los Angeles, surrounded by people also in recovery who could understand what I was feeling. I wrote my own songs, I released my own album; I played gigs with new artists. I felt refreshed and renewed, and eager to start a new, sober life.

When I went to England to try and work on the band’s new album I felt sad and depressed. I was haunted by memories of alcohol, drugs, and my sexual exploits. I couldn’t focus on the music anymore; I only thought about my fucked up life.

Each time I returned to Los Angeles my friends pointed out my distress.

“John, you look horrible.”  
“I hate to ask this, but did you drink today?”  
“John, when was the last time you went to a meeting?”  
“I’m concerned, John. I think you may be struggling too much and too hard.”  
“Let it go. Just let it go…and work on _you_.”

It took me over a year to understand how right they were. I wasn’t focusing on my sobriety. I wasn’t being honest with my band mates, or my dear friend. He had given me space, and I was thankful for that; he was respectful of me and my decisions and yet I trembled in fear every time I looked at him, positive that my actions and words had caused him to resent me. 

It’s so hard to do the right things. It is so much easier to point fingers and assign blame and sulk and brood over the way people have scorned me. It took months of reassurance from the people close to me in America before I made my final decision to leave the band for good. I knew that I had to go to England, and look into a pair of familiar green eyes, and make sure he was the first to know.

* * *

Why the fuck did he have to look so good? I stood at his door, mangled from my long trip, scared shitless and practically shaking. I didn’t tell him I was coming; I just showed up at his home and he answered the door looking clean, refined, and stunningly beautiful. He looked hopeful, too, and his green eyes weren’t clouded by sadness and fear; they regarded me openly, expectantly, and with a good deal of surprise.

He offered me tea and I nodded, thankful that I could postpone my words for a few moments longer. He pointed me to the living room but I didn’t stay there long. I ventured to the kitchen and hovered close to the door, watching his back as he clutched the counter with his head cast downwards. He sensed my presence and moved quickly, attending to his preparations as he attempted to start light conversation. He kept his back to me, though, and I sensed that the calm I had seen in his eyes was covering something much deeper that he wanted to keep hidden from me.

“I didn’t know you’d be in England,” he said.

“No one knows,” I replied. “Except you.” He stopped moving. I saw his back twitch; the muscles there tightening as he digested my words.

He still didn’t turn around and he didn’t acknowledge my statement in any way. He stood still with his back presented to me, and said, “Did you just arrive?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I came straight from Heathrow.” I know how I sounded; sad, defeated, and somewhat desperate. I couldn’t hide the emotions; my voice let them come through clearly.

He turned to me then and I waited to see what look would be in his eyes. I was surprised to find them cold. I bit my lip as he studied me, giving him a moment to take me in without disrupting his musing. His eyes didn’t change at all; they merely roved my face and my body, a clouded shade of forest green.

“You can freshen up, if you like,” he said. His voice was strangely flat and distant. “You know where the bathroom is.” He turned away from me again and pressed his hands to the counter. I started to say something; a thank you, perhaps, or maybe I was about to unleash my difficult words right there in the kitchen, aimed towards his back. But I noticed a slight tremor in his form, a small shake of the sleeve of his shirt that told me he was trembling, and he was just as nervous as I was.

I retreated. I retrieved my things from the car and went up to the bathroom, calming myself with the warm water flowing over my skin. I shaved my face, I combed my hair, and I steadied myself for the confrontation that was about to come.

* * * 

I watched him sip his tea. His eyes still told me nothing; there was no fear, no love, and not one ounce of compassion. I think he was protecting himself somehow, shielding himself from his real feelings and desires. I mean, we hadn’t been alone together for at least months; perhaps as long as a year. We were studying each other for the first time after a long period apart and here he was in front of me, gazing at me with eyes full of distance.

He asked where I was staying and how long I would be in England, and then I confessed to him, “I came just to talk to you.”

He froze. His cup hung in midair, on the way towards his mouth. His face became locked, etched into a paralyzed statue. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I searched his face, trying to see anything that told me how this statement affected him. But I could see nothing. He had erected a stone barrier across every one of his features.

I put my tea on the table between us, closed my eyes and steadied myself with a deep breath. I opened my eyes and declared, “I’m leaving the band.”

He didn’t move. Not a damn inch. His eyes didn’t flicker, his hand didn’t shudder, there seemed to be no breeze in the air to even move his hair. I couldn’t bear to see that cold, stone face; I bit my lip and hung my head, occupying my eyes by staring at my hands. “I wanted to make sure you were the first to know,” I said. “I didn’t want you to find out through rumors.”

I heard his clothing shift slightly as he moved; I could hear the clink of his cup as he placed it on the table. I didn’t dare look up again until I heard the movement stop, and when I did see him again he had sunk back into the couch with his face covered by his hands.

I moaned his name, frightened by his sudden change in posture. I thought he would fall apart, that he would drop his hands and show me the pain and fear that he desperately kept hidden. But he lowered his hands and only showed me once again an expression frozen in cold indifference. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. His voice was unfeeling and so far away. I could see that he was struggling with his emotions; I could see the corner of one eye twitching as he fought to keep his feelings hidden from me.

I told him I was sorry. I didn’t know what I was apologizing for and when he asked I just replied, “Everything.”

There was a silence between us as something crossed his mind; perhaps he was calculating all the things that had happened that I could possibly be apologetic about. There was so much between us and I became saddened by the memories that rose up in my mind; the way I had thrown him aside when he dated Julieanne, the way I had hurt him when I married Amanda in secret; the way I had hidden my love from him until it was far too late to confess.

I saw his face change. He closed his eyes and all his features fell into an expression of sadness that matched my own. He hung his head and his hair fell across his forehead and I saw his lips shudder with the emotions that he had finally set free.

I had to go to him. I needed to touch him, reassure him; I had to look into his eyes as I talked to him, and see his emotions reflected in their shifting color. I sat on the table right across from him and lifted his chin, and he opened his eyes to meet mine. I saw then the fear and the loss that he felt, in addition to the sadness that crossed his features. “It isn’t because of you,” I offered, dropping my hand to his knee and just resting it there, reassuring him with my touch that my words were true.

I watched his eyes and they were thoughtful. Glad, even, that I had spoken those simple words. It was a huge relief when he said he understood; I had built up a lot of guilt over my decision to leave and I had expected him to scream at me, throw something at me perhaps; yell and unleash all his anger and fear.

He didn’t do any of those things. And when he hung his head and hid his face in his hands I knew that he understood much more than I intended. He realized that with my leaving the band, I would also leave him. I didn’t want him to know that yet but it was too late. He understood me almost more than I understood myself.

I didn’t want him to shield himself from me. I wanted so badly to look into his eyes. I clasped his wrists and pulled his hands down from his face. “Please don’t hide from me,” I pleaded, pulling his hands down to his knees and locking my fingers into his, squeezing tightly.

I saw tears build, clouding the green color of his eyes with sadness and despair. I had to keep talking; I had to tell him everything, right there as we sat so close to one another, locked in one another’s gazes. “I’m sorry I never told you how I felt,” I said, looking directly into his eyes.

He started to struggle with me. He thrust his arms backwards, trying to disentangle himself from my hands. “Let go of me,” he said but I held firm; trapping him with my fingers and my deep stare.

I leaned forward, moving as close to him as I dared, and voiced the feeling that I had held inside me for too many years: “I love you.”

The tears fell from his eyes then and he twisted and squirmed, trying to get away from me. So many years ago I had run from him, feeling the same emotions of torture and longing and despair; but I wasn’t going to let him do the same thing. I was going to make him stay with me, and confront the truth in a way that I never could. I kept repeating those three words over and over again, daring him to deny that it was true.

He relented. His eyes slipped closed against his sobs and he collapsed forward onto my shoulder. I finally released his hands and I held tightly to his back as he let go of his emotions. I held him and I soothed him; I comforted him in a way that he had always done for me in the past. I closed my eyes and inhaled his familiar scent, and I sighed onto his scalp, relieved that after all our trials together I could offer him this one special moment of reassurance, understanding, and love.

When he pulled away from me he tried to hide again but I wouldn’t let him; I grasped him and pulled his hands back down to his knees. I leaned my forehead against his, exhausted after telling him so much in so few words. I thanked him; I told him how grateful I was that he let me confess my feelings. I leaned back to look in his eyes once more. I knew that my time was limited; that I had to take in as much of him as I could before going to my hotel and then leaving the next day. I gazed into his eyes and I saw once again his maturity. I couldn’t believe that I had ever thought him younger than me; he was always the older one, the more secure one; he was the teacher and I was always his student and if only I had listened and learned…

I clasped onto his hands and studied his face. “I should have told you that I think you’re beautiful.”

He rolled his eyes at me. He tried to shut me up but I wouldn’t let him; I was going to tell him everything on my mind and I was going to hold his hands and make sure he stayed put while I told him. I leaned in closer and I stared at his lips, saying, “I should have told you that your lips are soft.”

I lifted my eyes back to his and saw his green eyes start to shimmer; he looked somewhat embarrassed, as if my words had stirred a memory inside him. The color of his eyes turned a small shade brighter and I left them to look at his forehead, to the place where the roots of his hair started and ventured back and away from his face. I released one of his hands and I smoothed his hair against his head, admitting, “I should have told you that I love your hair blonde.”

I settled my hand on the back of his neck and I looked into his eyes again, seeing joy light them up into an electric green, showing his delight. He laughed and teased me, chiding me and telling me that I preferred him as a brunette. He smiled but I wasn’t ready to return his simple happiness; I looked at him seriously and explained, “I should have told you that you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. And that no matter what has happened between us, you will always be closest and dearest to my heart.”

God, why hadn’t I ever told him that before? I had told him he meant a lot to me, I had told him how happy I was that he was in my life, but I had so much trouble saying anything true and honest and from my heart. I couldn’t face him after I said it; I had to lean against his forehead and tear myself away from the green eyes that had become bright once more with the desire and love that I always longed to see.

“You mean that?” he whispered, and I felt his eyelashes flutter against my skin.

My stomach clenched with sexual desire. I became aroused, feeling the soft hair tickle me and knowing that his eyes were that impossible shade of bright, sparkling green. I could only nod into him and grasp onto his neck, and when I opened my mouth again I know I sounded breathless: “I should have told you that I love to gaze into your eyes.” I felt my whole body shudder as I recollected all of the looks and glances he had given me over the years; all of the subtle shades of green that I had recorded and cataloged and could recall from memory with hardly a thought. I lost all my composure then and helplessly I breathed, “They are the most beautiful goddamn eyes I have ever seen.”

I pressed my hand into his neck and I felt his skin roughen with small goose bumps. I tore my forehead away and I pressed my lips into his neck, desperate to feel the heat of his skin against me.

“Stop,” he said, but there was no force behind the command. I could hear his breath coming fast from his lips and I knew he enjoyed it, so I asked him why in between the kisses that I kept putting over his skin. “Because tomorrow you’ll be gone.”

His voice was so sad. He pressed his cheek against mine and I felt the warmth of his desire pour out of his flesh. He was right. We shouldn’t make love when we both knew that we were ending this; we shouldn’t give in to our desires when we knew that it would only make our parting more painful.

To be honest…I didn’t care. I had done everything that was right: I had quit the band, I told him how he felt, I had offered him comfort and security as he cried. I had unleashed my confessions and now I wanted him. It had been too damn long since we had made love and I wanted to do it just once more; I wanted to look deep into his eyes, down into his soul, and watch him as we groaned together in pleasure.

I withdrew my face from his and at the same time released his other hand, moving my fingers up his thigh. His eyes betrayed his words; his desire was clear and I wasn’t going to let him fight it. “Are you sure?” I asked, and I raised an eyebrow at him, tilting my head in a teasing posture.

I am a sick man; I mentioned that already, didn’t I? I admit that in the next moments I manipulated him completely. I pushed him with a gesture that I knew would melt him, and cause him to fall right into my roving hands. I smiled at him. I lowered my chin, parted my lips, twinkled my eyes, and smiled. I seduced him with my expression; the endearing smile of love and comfort that I had offered him long ago at a small kitchen table in Birmingham, England.

His eyes turned into green fire. They seemed to change into a million different shades all at the same time, as he dissolved in front of me into need and desire. His face became flushed and his lips fell open and I could hear his breath coming fast and irregular.

I smiled wider. I leaned back into his neck, and it too was flushed, radiating heat onto my lips and into my mouth. “Don’t,” he begged but there was no conviction left in his voice. He craned his neck, keeping his face far away from my lips, but I continued to assault him with my mouth as one hand squeezed his neck and the other roved down under his leg, moving towards his knee. His body shuddered and when I finally grasped the tender spot behind his knee and started massaging him, matching the rhythm of my lips against his neck, he moaned helplessly.

I moved faster, increasing the pace of my mouth and my hands. I withdrew from his neck and he turned his head to meet me, and without uttering a word we kissed deeply. I dropped my hand from his neck and sought out his cock, and I gasped when I found him already erect under my hand.

We spent the rest of the evening in his bedroom. More than anything else we talked. We did make love as much as we could and it is impossible to describe all the feelings that coursed through me as we came together that last time. But the sex we had wasn’t the important part of our evening together; rather it was all the things we said to one another, all of the conversations that we desperately needed to have if we were going to part amicably.

We did have some damn good orgasms, though. And during every single one, I stared into his eyes.

* * *

I feel like it all should have ended so differently. He should have pleaded with me; begged me to stay with him, screamed and cried and pounded me with his fists as he unleashed his anger and fear and pain.

But that’s not what he would do. It’s what _I_  would do if faced with the same circumstances. He merely leaned his head against my body and nodded; he said he understood, he said he would respect my wishes. I wish I possessed his sensibility and his willpower. I wish I had the strength to be so bold and caring.

I have so much to learn. I turn now to new teachers to guide me. I listen to them and absorb their suggestions and I act in the most sober manner that I know how. I will concentrate on me, and I will get better, and by the time I meet my lover again, whenever that may be, I will be a better person. Frankly, more like him.

I went to England just days ago and yet I miss him already; in a way I have never missed him before. I look around my apartment and I feel emptiness; I feel like he should be somewhere near me, hovering close and watching with his intense gaze. The best I can do right now is say his name in my prayers. Every night since I returned I have asked my god to protect him, watch over him, to steer him on his own path and to make sure he always reaches his destinations safely. I will do this every night, until the time I feel well enough to see him again.

I’ve always wondered what we would be like when we were old and retired. A long time ago, before our lives became complex and confused, I just assumed that we would grow old together, that we would share a small home somewhere and live our final days in the comfort and ease of two old friends. I always wondered back then if his eyes would still shine when he reached his sixties. I wondered if I would still see them turn that bright shade of green when something excited him.

You know something? I have every intention of finding out.

Maybe they are right. Perhaps he is an addiction. Years from now we might both have revelations about one another that we could never have when our lives were so entwined together. Maybe he will meet someone new and settle down. Maybe I’ll meet someone, too. Or maybe…just maybe we will come together once again.

Meanwhile I can think of him whenever I want to by revisiting the memories that are so firmly planted in my brain. And I promised myself that I wouldn’t taint them any more; I would remember him honestly, in the same way he always presented himself to me, in the shifting colors of his green eyes.


End file.
